


The Same Old Mess

by femvimes



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: It says his name is John but I'm calling him Jamie, M/M, Pre-Canon, The People's Revolution of the Glorious Twenty-Fifth of May
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femvimes/pseuds/femvimes
Summary: Revolutions always come around again. And when they do, Dr. Lawn is there in the background, just trying to live his life and save as many people as he can.





	1. The First Night

It’s the evening on the 25th of May, and Dr. Lawn is staring at the body of John Keel. He’s laid out in Lawn’s makeshift morgue next to the others. Besides being dead, there’s something off about him. Sam Vimes hadn’t noticed when he and Colon had brought the bodies in. Lawn could tell, though. This body was slightly taller than the Keel he knew. The face was different: better shaven, possibly a little younger, and with a twice-broken nose. Lawn knows that faces change in death. This one is wrong, though. He wouldn’t be lying if he’d said he hadn’t studied Keel’s face a little more attentively than he would a seamstress. People always wonder how Lawn can maintain a professional relationship with all the ladies he operates on.

“I’m not a creep,” he’ll say. And this is true. The other reason is that nothing about the seamstresses’ parts interest him. They don’t mind. In fact, they trust him more for it.

Lawn rubs his face with his hands. Gods, he had been afraid that it would end like this. Keel was a good copper, too good for this city. In less than a week he’d made more difference than any copper in thirty years.

“It’s not fair,” Lawn says out loud. He feels stupid for saying it. People don’t come out of revolutions unscathed. The current political situation is in confusion even with Snapcase in charge. Lawn can focus only on his confusion, and the problems he can solve.

Tomorrow morning he’ll arrange to have a wagon from the Elm Street mortuary pick up the seven bodies. All the deceased except for poor, dumb Reg Shoe are watchmen. Presumably they’ll take care of funeral arrangements.

There is a tradition up in the mountains of holding vigil the night somebody dies. You stay up with them to keep them company and also, Lawn presumes, make sure they are really dead. Lawn is settles in for a long night. He’ll need to be awake anyway. People are still straggling in with crossbow wounds and hoof-shaped bruises.

One such invalid, Sam Vimes, appears at the door. He has scrubbed his face clean of the blood, grime, and tearstains. The bandage on his arm is already grubby, though.

Lawn nods to Sam’s arm. “I hope you haven’t been using that, lad.”

Sam looks at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“No,” he says quietly. “I was helping dismantle the barricade and get people home.”

There’s a shell-shocked look in his eyes that Lawn recognizes. He’s seen it in the eyes of young women who tried to operate on themselves and had to be carried in to him while they bled. It’s a look not of pain but of trauma, of “this can’t be happening to me”.

Sam casts his eyes across the bodies and flinches. Lawn knows it’s hard for him to be in here. He must see Keel’s face and notice, see that it’s not Keel…

“Do you need any more help?” Sam asks Lawn, avoiding looking at the bodies again. He must not have looked closely enough to see what’s wrong.

“Not with this lot, no. You should get some sleep, Lance-Constable.”

Sam half-nods and turns to go. He suddenly stops at not-Keel and points to him.

“He didn’t even catch Carcer, in the end!” Sam yells. “I mean, what was it all for? Snapcase? Snapcase isn’t going to bring Carcer to justice. The Cable Street lot don’t know where he is, but he’s not dead! He should be dead—” Sam’s voice breaks. He turns away from Lawn and says gruffly, “Bugger all this. I’m going home to my mum.” Before Sam stomps out he casts one final look at the body. “He was cold when we brought him in…so cold.”

After Sam leaves, Lawn presses his hand to not-Keel’s face. It’s frigid. He grabs the wrist of Ned Coates, lying on the next table. Still a semblance of warmth. Lawn frowns. This definitely isn’t the body of the Keel he knew.

Didn’t Rosie say that Keel was married? Disregarding his personal feelings, Lawn owes it to the woman to find out what happened to her husband. Something had led to the existence of a Keel body double and Carcer’s disappearance.

The air blurs, and two men in orange robes are standing next to Lawn like they’ve always been there. One has a dog-end tucked behind his ear that’s still smoking.

“Ah, I see we’re a little early,” says the smaller wrinkly one. “He hasn’t risen yet.” He looks around and sees Lawn, who is staring in affronted shock.

“How did you get in here?” Lawn demands. He’s done with nonsense for today.

“Through the door,” the small one says. He smiles amiably, but there’s a suggestion of danger behind the smile. Lawn folds his arms. He can’t be intimidated, on today of all days.

“Then promptly leave through it, please.”

The other man, who has a messy head of white hair, steps forward.

“We’re just here to check on Reg Shoe,” he says.

Lawn glances at the cooling body, and raises an eyebrow at the men.

“I’ve got some bad news for you…”

“Oh, we know he’s dead!” exclaims the white-haired man. “Have funeral arrangements been made?”

Lawn hugs himself with his folded arms and sighs.

“Not for him, no. Not for any of them yet. I’m assuming the watchmen will take care of their own. Reg was the only civilian. I’m planning on getting in contact with his family but I haven’t had the time yet.”

“Don’t worry about that,” says the wrinkly man gently. “We’ll take care of it. We made a promise to somebody.”

The white-haired man’s eyes slide over to not-Keel for half a second, but long enough for Lawn to notice.

“Did you have something to do with this?” He gestures to the body double, or whatever it is.

“Will you accept part of the truth?” the wrinkly man offers.

“No!” Lawn snaps. “Today has been difficult enough.”

The wrinkly man pulls the dog end from behind his ear and studies it before taking a drag.

“It’s half the truth or nothing,” he says mildly.

“Are you sure about this, Lu-Tze?” the other man whispers.

“If we don’t tell him, he’s going to keep asking questions, Qu.”

They seem to have a wordless argument, and then Lu-Tze turns to Lawn.

“Here’s what we can tell you. John Keel is dead. Carcer has been captured, but is undergoing prosecution elsewhere in a fairer system. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“That’s very interesting wording,” says Lawn. He’s not sure if he can trust these men, but it’s almost a relief to think that there’s more going on. People always hope that things happen for a reason, but Lawn has come to know that even the will of the gods is random. “Are you part of that secret society that everyone says runs Ankh-Morpork?”

Qu and Lu-Tze both laugh.

“Oh, no,” says Lu-Tze. “Ankh-Morpork is much smaller than our scope.”

Lawn blanches at that. He has the feeling that he’s accidentally been shown something much larger than his comprehension. But, just like when the Particulars come to his door, he’s not going to lie down and take it. He presses on, for John.

“Then why is one man so important?”

“John Keel and Carcer were, quite frankly, a cock-up,” says Lu-Tze gravely. “Carcer wasn’t supposed to be here. No, Qu, he deserves to know.”

“Does that mean Keel wasn’t supposed to die?” Lawn asks. That would be just typical Ankh-Morpork luck, wouldn’t it?

“Oh, he was, he was. Just not at the time that he did.” Lu-Tze looks awkward. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” says Lawn, even though it’s not. “Are you going to tell his wife?”

“What?” says Qu, confused.

“His wife,” Lawn repeats. “He was married.”

“His wife will be taken care of, too,” Lu-Tze says. “That’s about all that we can tell you.”

They look as if they’re about to leave.

“Wait!” Lawn pleads. “What am I supposed to do now? Just keep going? Pretend nothing happened?”

Lu-Tze spreads his hands. “Is it not said, ‘you do the job that is in front of you?’”

The air blurs, and they’re gone, leaving Lawn alone with the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that "Lawn had a crush on Vimes/Keel" might be a bit of an out-there character interpretation, but he does make Vimes blush at one point and that's pretty hard to do. I'll try and post the next chapter in a couple of days!


	2. Three Years Later

It’s three years after the revolution, and the city feels sick. When Winder was in charge, the air at least felt alive with anger and the desire for change. Now there’s nothing but weary resignation. Dr. Lawn wouldn’t say that he’s fighting—he’s not a fighter—but he’s resisting however he can. He remembers the revolution, and wonders if it changed anything.

There’s a knock on his door one night, and it’s one of the old secret knocks that the seamstresses used to have. Lawn opens it and Sandra Battye is standing there, propping up a much larger man than her. Lawn’s eyes quickly scan the man for injury and immediately notice his fingers. They’re all broken and bloodied, every last one. Despite that, the man flips hair out of his eyes and gives Lawn a smile. It somehow manages to contain both pain and flirtation.

“Come inside, quickly,” Lawn says. Sandra grunts and half-drags the man in. Lawn shuts the door behind them and gestures towards the operating room. “I trust you weren’t followed.”

“Mossy, this is me we’re talking about,” Sandra pants as she pulls the man towards the inner room. “Dr. Lawn, Robert Pemberton. Robert, Dr. Jamie Lawn. Usually he’s our gynecologist, but he’s qualified in other areas too.”

“Other areas, huh?” murmurs Robert. Lawn gives him the benefit of the doubt; he’s probably delirious. He follows them inside and starts to get out tape and splints. Sandra props Robert up on the table and leans back.

“There!” she says. “You’re lucky I got to you before the Watch did. They’d charge you more and bring you to a less qualified surgeon.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says Lawn. “I’ve worked with some of them before.”

Sandra shrugs to concede this, and they share a look that conveys three years’ worth of memory. Lawn and Sandra never talk, but sometimes she gives him a thousand-yard stare that tells him all he needs to know. He’s glad she’s doing well with her clothing repair. Rosie complains she’s still making more than her. He knows more than he wants to about her other pursuits. Pursuits that usually end up with her bringing somebody injured to his doorstep like she has tonight.

Lawn brings his splint kit over to the table and gently takes Robert’s wrist.

“I’m going to start with your thumb, all right?”

“Sounds fine,” Robert murmurs. “Did I hear something about charging money?”

“Just for services rendered,” says Lawn. He starts setting the thumb, and Robert winces. “If I take anything else on credit I’m going to have to start eating rats like the dwarves do.”

“You’re still getting work from the seamstresses, aren’t you, Mossy?” Sandra asks. She’s fiddling with an instrument that resembles forceps.

“Yes, but not enough. My last lodger skipped his payment last month, and this month he skipped out of town.” Lawn moves on to the next finger. “We’re going to need a lot of tape. What did you do that attracted the Particulars’ interest, Mr. Pemberton?”

“I’m a giant flaming pouf,” says Robert casually. “Also, I may or may not have written a humorous poem about the Patrician’s endowment, or the lack of it.”

Lawn tries to look disapproving and not amused. “They broke your fingers for that?”  
Robert heaves a sigh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write again. Then again, I can always dictate to somebody.”

“Robert’s poems are really good,” says Sandra from the corner. “He codes meeting times and places for our little group into his poems. I don’t think the Particulars noticed that, but they didn’t like his humor very much. He disappeared last night, and when I found him a few minutes ago they’d just dumped him on the road outside their door.” That sort of thing happens all the time. The Particulars are just more secretive about it than under Winder. They aren’t even called that anymore, but the citizens know it’s all the same people.

After Lawn splints the last finger, Sandra pulls him aside.

“He’s going to need somebody to look after him for the next few days, and--”

“Yes, he can stay here,” says Lawn. He’d already known what she was going to ask the moment she’d brought Robert inside. And to tell the truth, he doesn’t mind. “But he does have to pay rent. I’ll lose the building if I don’t get a lodger, and neither of us will have anything to eat.”

Sandra seems to sag, and she has a look on her face that he’s never seen from her before: one of weariness and desperation.

“Thanks, Jamie,” she says. “My business is about the only thing that’s going well. I can pay his first week’s rent, but after that he’s on his own.”

She says this loudly enough that Robert is clearly supposed to hear it. He waves a heavily bandaged hand.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says airily. “I have a rich patron who doesn’t know about the naughty poems. Of course, I will need somebody to dictate to so I can keep writing those poems. Somebody good with their hands, maybe...”

“Yes, yes, fine, I can write down your bloody poems,” says Lawn. “Now let’s get you set up in a bed before I change my mind about you staying.”

Sandra leaves with a promise to get home safe. Lawn is setting up one of the rooms (John Keel’s old room, an irony that isn’t lost on him) when there’s a ringing of the bell. Lawn hurries to answer it, but it still rings again before he gets to the door. When he yanks it open, Constable Sam Vimes is standing there, holding an unconscious young woman in his arms.

“We were on a date and she just collapsed, Mossy!”

Lawn doesn’t ask what kind of “date”; he recognizes the woman as a new seamstress named Clara. He’d only given her the initial check-up a few weeks ago.

“Come inside, Sam, please.” He opens the door wider and grabs his apron off the hook. “Vacate the table, would you, Robert?” He shuts the door to the dark and follows Sam into the operating room. Luckily Sam is keeping a level head on his shoulders, or he never would have gotten Clara this far. Lawn is prepared for him to go into shock as soon as he sets Clara down, but Robert is already on him.

“You did well bringing her in, lad,” Robert says. “Constable, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

As Lawn looks Clara over, Robert helps keep Sam calm and even asks him a few helpful questions. It turns out that Sam and Clara actually were on a date, in one of the poorer restaurants that try and seem fancy. Lawn doesn’t trust any of the food there, and especially not the fish from the river that Clara apparently ate. He feels guilty about presuming the nature of their relationship, but consoles himself that he didn’t say any of his suspicions out loud.

Clara collapsed because her airway began to close. In reality, it’s much worse than Sam thought, but Lawn doesn’t let that on. He delivers her a shot of adrenaline and an anti-allergen. He only pauses when he’s certain that she’s breathing normally again. He’s lost track of time and turns around to look at the men. Sam sits next to Robert, looking worried and exhausted. Robert is in a stupor and will probably fall asleep at any moment. Considering Lawn gave him enough painkillers to knock out a troll, he’s surprised it hasn’t happened already.

“Clara’s going to be okay, constable,” he says. “She just had an allergic reaction. If you continue to walk out with her, make sure you don’t buy seafood again.”

Sam nods, and then there is silence. Lawn realizes that this is the first time they’ve been alone in three years. Sam looks as if he’s about to ask a question, but doesn’t. Instead, Lawn says softly,

“You miss him too, don’t you?”

Sam laughs, without humor.

“Someone I knew for less than a week? Yes. I do. He taught me more than anyone in the last three years.”

Robert’s head finally falls onto Sam’s shoulder with a snore. Lawn smiles.

“Help me get him upstairs?”

 

Lawn lets himself sleep in the next morning. When he comes downstairs, Robert is already up and sitting at the kitchen table. Lawn isn’t surprised. This city has sucked the life out of everyone, but Robert is the most alive person Lawn’s seen in three years.*

*Besides Reg Shoe, but that was just a fault of the gods and a matter of willpower. Despite being a medical man, Lawn was only too happy to reduce the death count of the revolution by one when Reg Shoe came back to life.

“Good morning, Jamie,” Robert greets him with a smile. “What rhymes with ‘Snapcase’?”

“Face?” Lawn suggests. He goes over to the icebox and pulls out some meat wrapped in paper.

“Ooh, face, perfect.”

Lawn builds up last night’s fire and gets out the only clean cast-iron pan. “How are you recording this poem if you can’t write?”

Robert shrugs. He has an amiable look on his face but is picking at his bandages. “I’m just remembering it. Hopefully I can remember all the lines until I get the chance to record it somewhere.”

Lawn shuts his eyes and hears himself saying, “If I’ve got the time today, I can be your scribe.” Stop volunteering for things, he tells himself. Look at the trouble that’s gotten you into before. When he opens his eyes, Robert is grinning at him.

“I know you said you would be last night, but that was last night and I was bleeding on your table. A man’s liable to say anything to a patient to get him to feel better.”

He gives Lawn a look from behind his lashes, and Lawn’s heart briefly flutters in his mouth.

“I never lie to patients,” he says firmly. “I find it’s best not to say ‘everything’s going to be fine’ if it isn’t.” He waves his hand over the stovetop to test the heat. “How do hash and kidneys sound for breakfast?” He quickly adds, “They’re cows’. The kidneys, I mean.”

Robert holds up his hands. “I think you’re going to have to feed me.”

“Of course,” says Lawn calmly. “I knew the responsibility I took on when I told Sandra I’d take care of you.”

Robert folds one hand on top of the other and sits up straight. “Oh, I’ll be a model patient, I promise. I’ll write you funny poems to cheer you up. For example: Oh, a wizard’s staff has a knob on the end--”

“That’s fine,” says Lawn hurriedly. “Money will be an acceptable form of payment.” The lump of butter in the pan sizzles, and he turns back to it to start the kidneys. Before he turns, Robert winks at him. Model patient or not, this is going to be a very trying couple of days.

Robert evidently doesn’t like being spoon-fed, but he at least doesn’t try to pick up a spoon himself. He sits squirming while Lawn feeds him warm hash. Finally Lawn puts the spoon down and said,

“What is it?”

“It’s just--” Robert looks uncomfortable for the first time. “You don’t mind feeding a grown man like a baby?”

Lawn takes a bite himself. “It’s this, or you don’t eat. I suppose you could just stick your face into the bowl, but then I’d have to clean you up.” Robert smiles at that. “I trained in Klatch. Four years in a medical academy, and then one year out in the field. And when I say the field, I mean the battlefield. Imagine making sure five different people get fed, and none of them have hands.”

Robert laughs nervously. “Ankh-Morpork must be a walk in the park compared to that.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Lawn offers him another spoonful of hash. “The enemy were pretty identifiable in Klatch, and they didn’t constantly switch sides.” Also, they were fighting in the desert, and it’s much easier to see an army coming across the dunes than somebody grabbing you in an alleyway.

“So why have a practice here?” Robert wonders. “Judging by your accent, you’re originally from Pseudopolis. You could leave this city any time.”

“It—it’s not as easy as that,” Lawn stammers. “I’ve got people here who need me. The seamstresses don’t have an official doctor. Most of them are smart, like Rosie and Sandra, but what happens when one of them doesn’t learn how to prevent getting sick? No, I’ve got to stay.” What he doesn’t add, what he can’t possibly explain, is that somebody else had come from Psuedopolis, had tried to fix problems in the city, and had died for it. Somehow, in Lawn’s mind, he has to accomplish what John Keel could not. He isn’t brave like Keel was, so he has to help the city in smaller ways.

Robert is staring at him.

“What?”

“You were involved in the 25th of May, weren’t you? Don’t worry; Sandra told me.”

“I was,” Lawn sighs. “I was the revolution’s official doctor for a few days.” A few people have asked him about it in the last few years. Some of them are wide-eyed Watch recruits, or wide-eyed young seamstresses. He doesn’t wear the lilac like the other watchmen do. He doesn’t feel like he deserves to; he wasn’t there in the final battle, after all. And he doesn’t want to call too much attention to himself. The revolution had been fought for Lord Snapcase, but most of the original organizers are turning their minds towards revolution again.

Robert leans his elbows on the table.

“I wouldn’t be lying if I said I wasn’t involved in trying to ignite another revolution. From the sounds of it, you don’t want to be involved?”

Lawn looks down at the plate so that Robert can’t see the look on his face. He’s torn, as always, between duty and desire. What he wants is to be left alone, but what he needs to do is help people, and those things are totally at odds with one another. If it really came down to it, he’d be offended if the revolution stopped bringing him patients.

Out loud he says, “I only want to be involved as a doctor. I won’t pass on information, or coded messages, or give anybody tattoos of maps of the city. I’ll only heal people—and it doesn’t matter which side they’re on,” he adds, remembering a request from Keel that is such a distant memory now.

“That’s fine,” says Robert. He sounds impressed. There is a catch in his voice as he says, “Would I be correct in presuming that you wouldn’t mind being…involved with certain…people in the revolution?”

Lawn looks up quickly. “What’s that supposed to—“

He sees the cheeky grin on Robert’s face and sighs. “Nobody’s ever been able to tell before.”

Robert shrugs and looks delighted. “It takes one to know one.”

“This proposal, it isn’t just because you’re my patient, is it?” Lawn asks warily.

“I think that has something to do with it,” Robert laughs. “But my dating pool isn’t very big. I have to take who I can get.”

“Thanks a lot!” Lawn exclaims, though he’s secretly flattered. “I have to warn you, though, I move very slowly. I don’t have a lot of time for dating.”

“That’s all right,” says Robert. “If there’s one thing I’ve got, it’s lots of patience.”


	3. Eight Years Later

Lawn can’t seem to get rid of Robert. Their relationship slowly turns from landlord and lodger to lovers, so it’s not as if Lawn wants him to go. Sometimes the money from Robert’s patron is the only thing buying their groceries. That sounds more cynical than Lawn really feels. He’s never had the chance actually develop a relationship rather than have a single night. This is what having a true partner feels like.

There continue to be a steady stream of non-seamstresses needing discreet care. Some of them are Watchmen who remember Lawn’s part in the revolution, and some just find Lawn by word of mouth. People find him and need his help everywhere he goes. Lawn tells himself that he’s doing something. He can’t pass along messages like Robert and Sandra do, but he’s taking care of people one broken bone at a time.

Lawn has never considered himself much of a social person. He’s never had time. Robert, on the other hand, is a veritable social butterfly. Apparently, part of being a poet is boozing it up with friends whenever possible. It takes Robert a while to get Lawn to go out, but when he does Lawn has surprisingly good time. He should have expected Robert to have good taste in friends; he does in everything else. The only bar friendly to people like them (or at least, not hateful) is Breccia-owned The Flagstone Inn. It’s a troll bar, but one night every week they have a human bartender who serves drinks not made of molten rock. The Breccia understand the importance of allowing a regular group of people in their bar, even if they are humans. It’s good for business.

Lawn and Robert are out with the usual crew: Macie, who taught Lawn what pronouns were; Lem, a good-natured ex-boyfriend of Robert’s; and Travis, an enormous hairy man who is exceedingly kind. There are a few other groups of humans scattered around the bar, towered over by trolls. Lawn was surprised by how safe he felt when he first came to Flagstone. The trolls aren’t exactly welcoming, but they leave the humans alone. A drunk troll is not rowdy, just unconscious. Every now and then you get an ear-shuddering thump when one falls to the floor, but that’s a small price to pay. The Watch wouldn’t dare try a raid on a bar where one patron could take out a whole patrol.

That night their group is going through the usual sad roll call of the missing. This is a near-weekly ritual that Lawn really wishes they wouldn’t engage in. But it’s the only way to stay informed. There is a constant dialogue in low voices of “Has anyone seen Low Dave in a few days? I heard he was arrested. Nah, he’s just in hiding. Did Mariana and Jess get out of the city safely? Mariana sent me a letter from Quirm, but she wouldn’t tell me where they were staying.” 

People like him and Robert—queer people, Lawn has to remind himself not to shy away from the word—have an even more vested interest in a new patrician than the Seamstresses. The Seamstresses want a guild? Well, the queer community would like to stay alive, thank you very much. They’re already in hiding just because of who they are, so what does it matter if they pass along messages or deliver weapons to the right people? The Watch hunt them down on orders of Snapcase, but most of them are too dumb to be malicious and to uninspired to think of creative punishments. They just hand them off to the Particulars. (Not that they’re called that anymore, but the only thing that’s changed is the name.) That’s where Lawn comes in. If someone is lucky enough to be let out of Cable Street alive, they’ll be guided to Lawn’s place on Elm Street and he’ll take care of them, just like he did Robert.

The whole topic is exhausting: going over revolution plans, speaking in code, learning of friends’ deaths. Lawn is about to ask if they could change the subject when the door slams open and the bar falls silent.

“Oh, no,” mutters Lem. Lawn turns to see the only Watch member stupid enough to come in here: Sergeant Fred Colon. He’s out of breath, characteristically, and looks like he’s in genuine distress. He’s not about to conduct any sort of raid. The fact that this is a troll bar only seems to deter him slightly. His next words make Lawn realize why:

“I know there are humans in ‘ere tonight. Please, does anybody know anythin’ about medicine?”

Lawn stands up, steps around a troll blocking his view, and nods to Colon.

“Is there a medical emergency, Sergeant?”

Relief rises on Colon’s face like a tide. “Dr. Lawn. Thank gods. Didn’t expect to see you in here…” Lawn lets him trail off. When it looks like there won’t be an explanation forthcoming, Colon continues, “Er, Young Constable Vimes was breaking up a fight and Gussie Two Grins slashed him pretty badly.”

Lawn hesitates, if only for a moment. He’s patched up a few of Gussie’s victims before; all bad knife wounds. One of them didn’t even survive. He doesn’t have his bag, he’s had a drink or two, he’s just outed himself to the Watch, and oh gods he’s in a troll bar… Then he feels Robert’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll go get your bag from home.”

“Right,” says Lawn, and Robert is off. They only live a few blocks away; the small troll district and the Shades are close. The city likes keeping all the undesirables in one place.

“Travis, you go help the sergeant bring Constable Vimes in,” Lawn orders.

“You’re doing it in here?” Macie asks. They haven’t stirred up much of a commotion—trolls are largely disinterested in human affairs—but she has a point. 

“It’s clean,” says Lawn. “Even so—Lem, can you go ask the bartender if we can bring an injured human in here? Macie, you and I will clear off this table.”

They take all the drinks off, and Lawn gives the table scarred with carbonite fizz a cursory wipe-down. Lem comes back then, reporting that Vimes can be brought in if he doesn’t bleed too much.

“That may be a problem,” says Lawn. He nods over to Travis, who is carrying a thoroughly unconscious Constable Vimes. His “slash” is more of a gaping chest wound in the gap of his breastplate. Lem and Macie go pale. Lawn’s mind is racing but he doesn’t show it. He won’t let one more be lost to the night. There are very few members of the Watch that he can trust, but the men who wear the lilac are among them. He doesn’t want young Sam to die from a pointless barfight. 

“On the table, now.” Lawn slaps the wood and swoops on Vimes as soon as he’s down. He unbuckles the breastplate and pulls it off. The cheap metal isn’t effective at the best of times, especially when you wear armor two sizes too large and it leaves a gap on your side. The wound is jagged and has already bled enough to soak across the constable’s leather uniform. “You didn’t put pressure on it or anything?” This is directed at Leggy Gaskin and Fred Colon, who came jogging in next to Travis.

“I did try,” protests Leggy. “And I sent Fred off to get a doctor. But nothing in our uniforms is exactly absorbable. He was lying there on the pub floor…”

“Did you at least catch Gussie?” Lawn hears Travis ask.

“No,” says Colon with great patience. “We aren’t stupid.”

Lawn is working feverishly trying to get the bleeding to just stop already, but without bandages he’s fighting a losing battle. 

“Lem—Macie—Travis, somebody, I need your hands.” There are a pair of hands on the wound and Lawn can’t tell whose they are. He’s in Klatch; he’s in the revolution; he’s in a bar surrounded by friends watching him fail. “You need to hold it closed.” The hands oblige.

A different set of hands appear, holding bandages. Robert.

“This isn’t going to be good enough, I need the shock blanket. Wad it up and give it to me. Then get the suture kit ready.”

Lawn is infinitely grateful that Vimes is already unconscious. Sedating a wounded grown man, even a scrawny one like Vimes, can be more difficult than surgery. Robert passes the shock blanket but Lawn can already tell it’s not going to be enough. The table is too high.

“I can’t get a good angle,” Lawn says. “I’m getting on top of him.”

With the aid of a chair Lawn gets up on the table. There isn’t much room for him but it doesn’t matter. He straddles Vimes and puts all his weight down on the blanket. The wound isn’t particularly deep, just long, giving more surface area to bleed. Without enough pressure on it—like the weight of a person—it’ll bleed until there’s no blood left.

“What now, love?” Robert asks in his ear. Lawn presses his forehead into the table. He needs more time to think but a split-second is all he has. 

“Have Macie and Lem get the watchmen outside. We don’t need people crowding. Travis can stay just to keep an eye on us.”

“That’s good, because my hands are in the boy’s abdomen,” Travis rumbles. Lawn has always liked Travis. His size invites people to challenge him, but he refuses to leave the city like so many others. He said once that if they were all going to leave, he wanted to be the last one out.

“Good. Once the bleeding stops, I’ll need you to help me sew him back up.” In truth there is so much more to be done, but closing the wound will at least start it healing.

“What about a blood transfusion?” Robert asks. 

Lawn laughs into the table. “Only if we were at home. He’ll just have to get lots of rest and liquids.”

Macie and Lem keep Leggy and Colon calm outside. The trolls give them a wide berth, but they don’t kick them out. The bartender even brings some towels over. Things are a little touch-and-go, but the wound is eventually closed up. 

Lawn presses his palms into the table and closes his eyes. He just wants to hold Robert, but they’re both covered in blood. Travis proved to have such a level head that Lawn wants to train him. He doubts the man will leave his job as a brewer.

Travis has gone to get something to clean the four of them up with. Lawn starts to deliver a painkiller to the skin by the stitches and John Keel pops into his head. He did this once, didn’t he? He brought an injured man into the Watch station even though the man had tried to attack him. This is the opposite. Lawn’s community aren’t friendly with the Watch, but here they are in a queer-friendly troll bar helping a young Watchman. 

“I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you about Sergeant Keel,” Lawn says. He looks at Robert’s face for what feels like the first time in hours. Sweat is trickling down his forehead, just as Lawn can feel the sweat on his own.

“Of course I’ve heard of Keel.” Robert starts to wipe down the instruments. “Did you know him?”

“He was my lodger for about a week, “says Lawn, and that at least elicits surprise from Robert. 

“Darling, I had no idea. Did you know him before that?”

Lawn shakes his head. “Just that week. But that was long enough to like him. Not that he was an easy man to like. I…” Lawn turns a little red, and Robert smiles knowingly.

“You liked him?”

“He was attractive, in a rugged kind of way. I didn’t have long enough to really fall in love or anything. And he was married. So when I think of him, I think of that potential. Maybe in another time, another place.” Lawn puts down the needle and stretches his back. He’s getting old. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Robert laughs. “Love, are you asking me to forgive you for having a crush on someone before we even met? If anything, I should be asking your forgiveness. You spend every week with my ex and have never complained. You’re a better man than me.”

“Maybe,” says Lawn absently. “I don’t think so.” 

He’s not. He can’t do enough. He can never do enough. But Sam Vimes is alive, and that’s good enough for tonight. 

“Dr. Lawn?” a groggy voice asks. Constable Vimes is one of those people you can’t put down for long. He tries to put a hand to his side but Lawn slaps it away.

“You’re going to want to itch that,” he says. “Don’t. Do you still live with your mum? We can get you back home.”

“Did we catch Gussie?” Vimes groans.

Robert and Lawn share a glance. “I have been informed by the sergeant that you did not,” Lawn says carefully. Vimes’s head thumps down onto the table.

“Then what was the point?” he asks. 

Lawn doesn’t know what to say to that. To keep the peace? To not let people get away with things? To show the Watch’s strength? That last one is a joke. Their strength comes from the patrician, and that power is getting slowly whittled away.

“Yes, well,” Lawn says at last. “Stay away from strong drink, lad. I don’t want to see you in here again.”


	4. Ten Years Later

Lawn awakes one night to flames licking the window. The room is hot, though it isn’t full of smoke yet. Outside, he can hear people screaming.

Lawn throws the covers off and shakes Robert awake.

“Robert! Wake up! The city is on fire!”

This is a constant fear of Ankh-Morporkians. All those incautious people, living so close together, and so much flammable building material. Lawn’s mind races with plans of getting out, getting to the river somehow—

“Jamie!” Robert grabs his hand and tugs him to the door. “We don’t have time to be dazed.”

“Right—right.” There are lodgers downstairs and Lawn needs to keep his head. “Check the door before you open it!”

Robert presses a hand to the door, but the fire hasn’t reached their building. There’s nothing stopping it from jumping to this building from the one next door. Robert and Lawn keep ahold of each other as they run down the stairs and through the halls of the three-story building, rousing lodgers. Petrishia McIntyre struggles to carry both of her children until Lawn takes the daughter Charity. She hasn’t got any shoes on.

Finally, they all make it down to the main floor. The fire has overtaken the front of the building and smoke is boiling through broken windows. The back door leads to a narrow alley. Lawn would prefer not to be stuck in it, but they don’t have a choice.

“Everyone crawl on your knees!” Lawn yells. The noise of the fire is terrible—a roaring, sucking wind. He knows that the only way they won’t all die from smoke inhalation is if they crawl to the back door, even if the first instinct is to run directly to it.

Lawn pulls Charity’s shirt up over her mouth and gets down on the ground. He hugs her close to his chest while he crawls below the table in his operating room. Robert gets to the door first and shepherds people through it. Lawn is the last one through, just as the front door collapses under the fire’s pressure. There is a white-hot heat at Lawn’s back, but the only thing that matters is the child in his arms.

Although the air outside isn’t clean, it’s worlds better than the smoke-filled surgery. Lawn staggers to his feet and sucks in great lungfuls of air. The lodgers—Dangerous Bill, Nancy, and Doreen—are sprinting for the street that leads to the river. Petrishia’s son Patience is old enough to walk on his own and totters on the cobblestones. She takes Charity out of his arms.

“Dr. Lawn? Are you all right?” Her face is full of concern. He can’t quite tell why.

“Yes, I’m fine.” Robert takes him by the elbow and supports him as he begins to sway. “Wh-what’s wrong with me—“

“Love, love, it’s all right,” Robert says gently. He holds his hand tighter than he ever has, like he can pull Lawn back from a cliff’s edge. “I think you’re still in shock. But we need to run.”

There’s something wrong with Lawn’s back that he can’t quite articulate. Most of his thought process is taken up with keeping his feet beneath him. He and Robert stick with Petrishia and her children. The mortuary across the street collapses with a great cloud of steam as all the ice instantly melts. Ash rains down like fallen snow. The entire city is collapsing around them as they run. It’s clear that somewhere in the Shades was the beginning of the fire, but it spread like, well, wildfire. Everyone in the city is heading towards the river. Lawn isn’t even sure that the river will keep them safe. The surface has been known to catch fire when it gets too hot, after all.

The fire hasn’t yet crossed the Ankh. It’s only a matter of time before it does via the buildings leaning together. People are jumping into the river anyway, breaking the crust and wading in chest-deep. Robert leads Lawn into the stirred-up sludge. The water (or mud, or however it could be classified) stings at Lawn’s bare skin. Once it hits Lawn’s back, he feels an agony like nothing he has ever known. He throws back his head and screams. He tries to claw at his flesh, but Robert grabs both his hands and stops him.

“No, no, love—darling—you can’t touch it. I know it hurts, love, I know, I’m sorry. We’ve got to stay here, please. I’ll get you patched up as soon as I can.”

Robert is begging, close to sobbing. His eyes are red-rimmed from the smoke anyway. The stray sparks have singed his curly blonde hair. The burned locks make Lawn realizes. As he escaped the building, the heat must have horribly blistered his back. The pain is actually a good sign. It means that his nerve endings haven’t been burned away. It hurts now horribly, especially with the toxic sludge of the Ankh on it. But he’s going to live. He wants to tell Robert this, but he can’t get the words out. All he can see is the ash swirling all around them. He stares across at Robert’s face. The orange light of the flames illuminate it and flicker in his eyes. Robert is keeping him floating, making a circle with their outstretched arms. Past Robert’s head are a few figures standing on the shoreline. Everyone is panicking and trying to get into the river, which is getting so crowded now. These figures seem to be untouched by the heat and the horror. They’re both wearing orange robes.

“What are you?” Lawn yells. “Why do you only show up when terrible things are happening? Are you going to take care of this too?”

His vision blurs, and then the figures are gone. Robert pulls him close and holds his face to his collarbone and they float there, in the Ankh, while the city burns around them.

\----------------

James Lawn is a terrible patient. He keeps wanting to get up and help other people, especially with so many inexperienced medics running around. What’s worse is that he’s lying on his stomach and can’t see people doing things wrong. He just has to guess that they’re administering medicine incorrectly. Most people will need to be treated for smoke inhalation, but there will also be burns and injuries from falling debris.

Lawn lies in one of the hospitals set up on Small Gods Street. It’s the only reliable place in the city to get medical attention—besides one Dr. Lawn, who is currently out of condition.

Even inside, lying on his stomach, Lawn can feel the rage and despair. The patrician was evacuated when the fire started, and even four days later he isn’t back. Without his authority, no governmental relief has started. Three-quarters of the city was touched by the flames, so there’s barely anywhere for displaced people to go. Pseudopolis and Sto Lat are too far away to walk, and not exactly equipped to take in refugees. The only thing to do is rebuild. It’s been done before—but only with the help of the government. Even tyrants realize that they must have something to rule.

Apparently, Snapcase—or Mad Lord Snapcase, as people privately call him—hasn’t realized this. This could be just what Rosie and her friends need to get more Ankh-Morporkians on their side.

A pair of feet go by and Lawn tugs on their pantleg. The person who kneels down turns out to be Travis.

“Jamie!” he exclaims, and puts a hand on Lawn’s shoulder. “Robert said you were in here. Do you need anything?”

“Only to know what’s going on.” Lawn is practically pleading. He hates being on the sideline. He needs to help. He’s willing to bet that his back isn’t even that bad, but Robert does fuss so. He’d be fine if he could just take some painkillers, but those are some of the things in woefully short supply.

Travis grimaces. “It’s bad, Jamie. People are confused and hurt and getting angry. I’ve been hearing messages from the Seamstresses, and we want to guide people in the right direction. But it’s not going to be organized, if anything happens.” That ‘anything’ being another revolution, the word anyone is too afraid to say lest it get scared and disappear. “I don’t think now is the right time, but this could really expose people to how bad Snapcase is. One of the Lavishes is only a few beds down and their money isn’t helping them heal any faster.”

Lawn would never have figured Travis for a revolutionary, but it makes sense. He has unwavering dedication and everything to gain from outing Snapcase. Still, hearing him manipulate large groups of people is a little disconcerting.

“You want to steer people’s anger towards getting rid of Snapcase?” Lawn whispers. He’s so quiet, Travis bends down to hear him. “I don’t know if that’s going to work. You know how Ankh-Morporkians are. The best you can do is to make a few nudges and then hope the landslide doesn’t take out the town.”

“Jamie, I’m not trying to mess with anyone’s head,” says Travis, a little offended. “I understand you don’t want anyone to get hurt. That’s the last thing I want. But the town’s already been taken out.”

“I’m sorry,” Lawn says, and he is. Travis may be angry, but he’s not cold and calculating like Sandra or Rosie. “We’ll see what happens. Keep me informed. And—if you can, back me up when I tell Robert that I’m getting better. You two really need my help.”

Travis nods, and runs off when somebody starts screaming. Lawn lies there for the next few hours, drifting in and out of sleep. He thinks, or dreams, of men in red robes sweeping ash off the streets. Were they there on the riverbank to make sure something happened? Or didn’t happen? He wakes up in pain and with somebody whispering in his ear.

“Can you drink this water, love?” the voice murmurs. “You need to stay hydrated.”

“Robert,” Lawn breathes. He’s barely seen his partner over the last few days. This Robert is so pale and exhausted as to be barely recognizable. His beautiful hair is still singed, and his face is smudged with soot and blood. Lawn kisses him anyway. Kissing Robert is better than water, and just as necessary. Robert kisses like he needed it too.

“I’ve got to be ready to get up and walk around soon,” Lawn says. “Whether I’m feeling up to it or not. I won’t do anything, I promise. You can just steer me around and I’ll talk you through patient care.”

Robert rubs his forehead, but only succeeds in smudging the soot around. “Part of me wants to let you lie there and coddle you for days. The other part of me, the part of me that’s been out there, desperately needs your help. They’re still digging people out of wreckage and bringing them in. We don’t have enough people to carry bodies, let alone care for them. Everyone who isn’t injured—and I mean everyone, even looters on their time off—are involved. They all know that it’s in their best interest to not have bodies and charred wood lying around.” Robert smirks, but Lawn can see the horror behind his eyes. As much as he wants to help, Lawn doesn’t want to go out and see what Robert’s seen. He doesn’t want to see what’s bad enough that it’s united Ankh-Morporkians.

Robert gives him the water and sits back while he drinks it. “Once you’re feeling up to it, you can come to the Restructure Committee. A few of us are acting in charge of the city while all the highest-ranking officials are still hiding outside of town. A handful of the guild leaders are still here, so Rosie and Sandra have been writing up contracts for the Carpenter’s and Bricklayer’s Guilds. We’ve got no guarantee that the patrician will honor them when he gets back, but it’ll be in his best interest to take credit for the work we’ve already done. If he’s in power when he gets back, that is.”

Lawn’s mind is already working, a welcome distraction from his back. “What about the Watch?” He can only hope that they’re all helping. They may not be who they were under Keel, but Lawn hopes they remember how influential they were in that revolution. Maybe some of them will be able to actually help people without Snapcase clouding their minds.

“Oh yes, they’ve been helping just as much as anyone. It’s hard to tell who’s a Watchman, since most people are still in the clothes they were when the fire started. Actually, someone should speak to the Launderer’s guild about getting a wash station set up—“ He grabs a passing girl carrying bandages and asks her to deliver a message to Sandra. When he turns back, Lawn grabs his hand and looks him dead in the eye.

“Robert, I want to help. You can run the city, and I can heal the city. Then we can talk of revolution.”

Robert grips his hand. “There’s so much work to do.”


End file.
